


Nearly

by rjn



Category: Sorted (Website) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:45:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjn/pseuds/rjn
Summary: Turns out they both have discriminating taste.





	Nearly

**Author's Note:**

> This was a thing written with the last thing before the last thing became more of an annoying your beloved friend thing than a romantical thing and I wanted to keep the two things separate.

Mike finds himself, once again, in a moment of blissful calm, harbouring the clamouring thought: _how did I get here._ His career, his friendships, his life, none of it reasonable or predictable, yet here he is, with nothing to do but take it all in. The good and the bad met with a kind of hectic energy, a restlessness of mind that Mike has known from childhood.

It’s hard to imagine James is likewise spiralling, over there in his quiet space alongside. Cocooned in blankets curled against Mike’s back, even, like he isn’t a large man with a full-sized bed at his disposal. James is calm weights and measures, a thoughtful way about him, and while he hasn’t exactly planned his life out either, James is discerning. Goes straight for the heart of the thing, the intrinsic quality that makes it either worthy or inconsequential. Embraces the former.

Again, the question screams, _how did Mike get_ _here._

They’re both cerebral in turns, but only James harbours an instinctive touch of the sensualist, the epicurean tongue. He luxuriates in bed. Mike’s brain is ticking away, filing away sensations and anticipating what is coming next, how he should present himself, how James will see him. James simply basks, a melted pile of contentment. Mike is consequently surprised when James gets out of bed first. He rises to join, to be a proper guest and take the cue to leave if that indeed is what’s not being said. But James groans at the movement, a long whine from the back of his throat and then his hands are pushing Mike back down. He has chef hands, hands that can both withstand scalding water insensate and gingerly sculpt a delicate garnish. They can hold Mike still.

“Don’t do that,” says James. “It was nearly perfect.”

His voice is plaintive, spiked with regret. Mike drops back down, confused and anxious. _Nearly perfect_ is the height he hopes to ascend and if he’d somehow ruined it already, he will never forgive himself. _Nearly perfect to James_ could sustain him for a very long time.

But James is standing naked in the bedroom, walking, stopping, shuffling through his bag. He’s searching for something while Mike is trying to hold onto something. James is talking to himself as he hunts, in the soft voice he uses in the kitchen lest the food overhear his plotting. _James won’t be using you today, little ingredient, but he still loves you and he will find the ideal place for you soon._ Mike is having a laugh in his head, but then he actually catches the delicate notes of James addressing an item of clothing on the floor, gently admonishing: _Oh, hello. You don’t belong here._ Mike has never identified with a stray sock more than in this moment.

The warm weight of James returns. In case it’s a cruel trick, Mike tries to take it all in, savouring, reveling, being present the way that James does. The bed linen is tangled, but soft and cool where it touches his legs. The light is warm and indirect from the bedside table lamp where James has three paperbacks neatly stacked and squared. James is long and lithe, his skin luminously pale with that flushed and febrile quality around his neck and forehead.

James’ hands return to Mike’s skin, this time stroking, cajoling, and when Mike can bear to look, the warmth emitted by every fibre of James’ existence is almost too much. Mike closes his eyes. A thumb brushes over his lower lip. He is kissed and released. The thumb returns, gentle, prodding, a piece of chocolate pressed into his tongue. Creamy and coffee-tinged, and Mike opens his eyes to see that James is also partaking, and thoroughly pleased, eating chocolate and lounging, reckless bedhead and licking his thumb clean. It would be deliberate seduction if it were anyone else. With James it’s utterly guileless.

That’s the singular quality, there. The _Jamesness_ that lies in the contrast. He is intimidating, selective, formidable. This chocolate probably cost more than Mike wants to think about. But James is also unapologetically silly and an awkward kid grown. His ears light up red when he is battling shyness. He has trouble talking around his own teeth when he is rushed or excited about something.

And maybe Mike is the discerning one, after all. The one with impeccable taste and lofty standards.

James’ leg slides over and he arranges himself around Mike once more. His breath is sweet and warm on Mike’s shoulder. He murmurs it when Mike thinks it.

“Now we’re perfect.”


End file.
